Evolution Range: Decision and Indecision

Ingrained in Alistair and I is a sense of responsibility for oneself. Perhaps it comes from our Kiwi upbringing, a cultural trait of a non-litigious society steeped in pioneer roots, perhaps as a result of absorbing years of ‘old school’ climbing lore.  I don’t know. But being self-reliant is something that we take seriously. So it was in this light that we considered our next actions. First: immediate treatment for shock, a dose of anti-inflammatories, a tape-job to support the ankle. Second: a decision to make for a closer campsite, one that could be reached by butt-scooching down slabs and that avoided the boulder field that has seemed trivial on the ascent but that now loomed as a difficult barrier. Third: relocation of the lower camp to the upper site with its access to a stream for ‘icing’ the injury.

Butt-scooching down the slabs. Our old camp was at the lake on the far right.

'Chillin' out' at the new camp

It was a challenge to move everything up to the new camp in one load.

Immediate needs taken care of, we tried to assess the situation further. We had an SPOT beacon with a big red ‘SOS‘ button that would theoretically alert the authorities. But was it a reasonable and responsible action to call in the cavalry so quickly for a non-life threatening injury? What other options did we have? Could this be considered a ‘walking injury’? With some rest and care, could Al make it out under his own steam? Given the rough route back over Lamarck Col, this seemed unlikely. In fact, the probability for further injury to either Al’s ankle or a new body part appeared high. I doubted my ability to carry two loads on a return trip. 

But to the west lay the Evolution Valley along which wove the John Muir Trail (JMT), a veritable hikers’ superhighway. Al recalled a ranger station there, about 5 miles distant.

The Evolution Valley. The ranger station is at the end of the more distant meadow.

I walked down to seek help only to find the station empty. As requested by the note on the door, I left a detailed message. But what should I write of our plans? After some reflection, I indicated that we would press the ‘SOS’ button on my return.

The empty ranger station. We later found out that the ranger was off fighting the nearby forest fire.

The note somehow found its way to a ranger, we later found out. No idea how!

On the hike back, another possibility presented itself. Four young French-Canadian climbers who were hiking the JMT were keen to assist and offered to come up the following morning and help move Al down from Darwin Bench. From the main trail, it might be possible to fetch a horse from the packers at Muir Trail Ranch. At least there would be plenty of people to help – in comparison, Darwin Bench was virtually deserted.  However, this plan was also fraught with difficulties. The route from Darwin Bench to the JMT was steep and narrow, with a use trail that faded in and out (mis)guided by the occasional cairn.  It was certainly easier than Lamarck Col, but would still present a substantial challenge to Al. Once on the JMT, it was another 15 miles to Muir Trail Ranch, so rescue by horseback would be a lengthy affair. Worse, it would put us out on the wrong side of the mountains, out to the west. We had neglected to bring drivers’ licenses or credit cards or health insurance information. How the heck would we get back to our car on the east? I could always walk back over the mountains, but the prospect of splitting up was not appealing.

Racing back up the hill to reach Al before dark, I was treated to a marvelous view of the Evolution Basin to the south. The Evolution traverse runs along the striking ridges from left to right. 

We sat in the tent pondering and debating, going back and forth and back and forth. A sensible assessment of the injury and limited possibilities for self-rescue seemed to indicate that to press the ‘SOS’ button was the right thing to do, yet it was so difficult to surrender our notion of self-reliance.

Pride stood in the way, a barrier as lofty and impenetrable as the Evolution range itself.  We instead fretted over unnecessarily worrying our nominated emergency contact, Kathy, who would be alerted by SPOT. Surely there was no need to traumatize her or the girls who were in her care? Fingers hovered over the button repeatedly. To push or not to push?  The agony of indecision.  At about 9 pm, a finger hit the button. The light flashed in the night.